


The Courtship of Combat

by bendingsignpost



Series: Melee Mates [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Castiel (Supernatural), Alpha Sam Winchester, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, BAMF Castiel (Supernatural), Battle, Canon-Typical Violence, Courting Rituals, Courtly Love, False Identity, Knight Castiel (Supernatural), Lies, M/M, Omega Dean Winchester, Prince Dean Winchester, Prince Sam Winchester, Tournaments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:34:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27108817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bendingsignpost/pseuds/bendingsignpost
Summary: When pressed upon to mate for a political alliance, Commander Castiel dares to refuse his king. As “I do not wish to mate at all” is clearly the wrong thing to say, Castiel takes the other path and lies. “You must know my affections lie elsewhere, my king.”King Michael studies Castiel’s face long and hard. Then, with a nod, he snaps his fingers, pointing to Castiel. “The Winchester omega.”“Yes,” Castiel says with no real recollection of who that is.The ruse of an unavailable omega works well enough, right up until that omega is no longer unavailable. Then, with what seems to be his entire nation cheering him on toward victory, Castiel must enter the melee to win his mate. Backed by allies, training, and his own natural talents, the only question is how well he can contrive to fail.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: Melee Mates [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2184021
Comments: 447
Kudos: 1497





	1. Falsehoods and Preparations

When Castiel comes of age, he does so as an alpha and, therefore, is immediately taken on as a squire to his third-cousin Prince Michael. It is a great honor, and one only afforded to him by his other cousins presenting as betas. He maintains weapons, honing both the blades and his skills with them. He rides hard and long, his days stretching even beyond those of Prince Michael; after all, someone must cook breakfast before sunrise and clean dinner’s dishes after dusk.

Come the civil war, Castiel enters knighthood early and superbly. He becomes a captain. A commander. Had the war raged long enough, none doubt his eventual rise to general. Instead, with an uneasy stalemate between Lucifer and King Michael, Raphael’s meddling to the east, and Prince Gabriel’s abrupt abdication, Castiel finds himself thrust into yet another role: that of a fledgling diplomat.

This is a problem.

“Castiel, we are in need of alliances,” King Michael reminds him. “You will join the scenting tour.”

Back bowed, head lowered, Castiel trains his eyes on the base of King Michael’s throne. “My king, you know that this, I cannot do.”

“I know this, you _must_ do,” King Michael replies. “For what reason would you disobey me?”

Castiel valiantly struggles to think of a convincing one.

_I have no wish to mate._

_I have no wish to mate_ for you _._

_This one choice is_ mine _._

Aloud, he says none of this. Instead, he commits treason, and lies to to his king:

“My heart is already claimed,” Castiel declares. “I could scent all the world and remain unswayed.”

King Michael rises from his throne. “Walk with me,” he decrees, and Castiel follows him away from the hushed whispers of the throne room, a thousand rumors birthed with his one utterance. They enter the private hall behind the throne.

“Tell me the name of this omega,” King Michael commands.

Absolutely no one comes to mind.

“Surely,” Castiel begins, and swallows. “Surely you recall… before the war… when we traveled abroad.” 

Arms folded, wrists glinting with as much gold as his furrowed brow, Michael waits.

“The omega was young, with parents yet to allow courtship or claiming,” Castiel continues. “Regardless, I have never seen nor smelled another to sway me away. I swore to wait. I am still waiting.”

“It has been a decade since we traveled,” King Michael says.

“The memory remains.”

“The omega was so striking, so young?”

“I was young as well,” Castiel reminds him.

“If you are still waiting, the omega is unmated.”

To disagree would be dangerous at this point. “Yes.”

“You are… twenty-nine.”

“...Yes.”

“And you claim this omega—already manifested as an omega ten years ago or more—is yet unmated.”

Belatedly, it occurs to Castiel that this was a very bad lie.

“Yes,” he says anyway.

King Michael studies Castiel’s face long and hard. Then, with a nod, he snaps his fingers, pointing to Castiel. “The Winchester omega.”

“Yes,” Castiel says with no real recollection of who that is.

“His father refuses to have the omega mate until his younger alpha heir is mated,” King Michael says, nodding to himself.

“Such is often the way,” Castiel agrees.

“This is the one you would have?”

Castiel nods.

King Michael gazes into the middle distance, consulting himself. At last, he nods. “There would indeed be no use in sending you upon the scenting tour.”

“I thank you, my king.”

A heavy hand grips Castiel by the shoulder, a hand still rough from sword and lance despite the pen-soft demands of ruling. “I will look into the matter. We will put you forward for when the time comes.”

In the long blankness of Castiel’s mind, there are no words to be found.

King Michael nods at him. “Study their traditions. The territory may be small, but it is not unknown for the caliber of its warriors.”

“Yes, my king,” Castiel’s mouth says for him.

From that day on, Castiel withstands the gifts of textbooks and travel logs. He navigates an extremely confusing period of determining whether it is Samuel or Dean Winchester who he is meant to be pledged to. He endures the relayed snatches of poetry written about his alleged love but does, at least, learn that the omega is Dean.

He learns many things, in fact. That the territory is one of contradictions, of fierce independence and fiercer loyalty. That the Winchester brothers were both raised in the expectation of presenting as alpha. That the omega refused to abandon his martial training after presenting.

This last finally jogs Castiel’s memory: he had been surprised by the omega on the training grounds during their visit. He had only seen the boy from a distance, but the deference of those around him had proclaimed the omega for what he was.

The boy’s form had been good despite the youth of his face. Barely presented at thirteen, but very steady for his age, training with older squires, young alphas of sixteen or more.

Had he been beautiful? No, of course not. No one is beautiful at thirteen, at such a shifting, twisting year of mismatched parts. But despite his changing body and wandering center of gravity, the omega had certainly proven his place on the field. Castiel had seen him only once after this: at the far side of the high table, opposite from where Castiel waited upon King Michael. 

The boy would be grown now, perhaps twenty-three or twenty-four. The alpha brother may yet be twenty, and some alphas remain unmated for a very long time, political pressure or not. Should the brother be picky enough, Castiel might remain unconcerned by this matter for a decade, long enough for much to change. It’s a thin hope, but still a hope.

Only two years later, Samuel Winchester takes a mate. King Michael hands Castiel the proclamation himself, a courtesy letter inviting members of their court to attend their neighbor’s festivities.

Fortunately, Lucifer strikes at their borders before the traveling party can depart, and Castiel is far too busy joining the skirmish to visit his long awaited love. Castiel proves instrumental in rescuing the targets of Lucifer’s ire: a fleeing omega and her child of eight, Lucifer’s own heir.

Both Kelly and Jack take to Castiel immediately, a reaction that may have something to do with a number of dead bounty hunters and a solemn promise that neither omega nor boy would be bargained back to Lucifer. Castiel sends both to the capital with a message to Michael that to flaunt the safety of the pair would do much to infuriate their enemy. Soon, another messenger returns, granting the child to Castiel as his page, if only within the capital.

Six months of furtive attacks and double-crossing spies follow, capped by eight months of wariness on two borders. Castiel’s main contact crosses too far, and he learns only a month after the fact that Crowley has been slain.

To make matters worse, Samuel Winchester has a child. An heir apparent.

Castiel learns of this in his post in a border town. The letter comes from King Michael himself, and commands Castiel to prepare to return to the capital within the month. With the war at a standstill, Castiel must train for the inevitable tournament to win his omega. Such is the Winchester way.

As commanded, Castiel returns to the capital and trains, much to Jack’s delight and his own private fury. Jousting has never been his strong suit. Spears may fit well the hands of their king, but Castiel is a master of sword and buckler. Without the weight of experience to bolster his prowess, he merely has the weight of years, thirty-three of them now. Thus, Castiel prepares, and he prepares to lose. How best should he wear his grief? With resignation? With anger? Which response will convince King Michael to accept Castiel swearing off courtship in all its forms?

Then comes the formal announcement.

Rather than the traditional joust, Dean Winchester has selected instead a melee. The omega, famed for his emerald eyes and cupid’s bow lips, has such a surfeit of suitors that the only efficient means of deciding among them is battle.

Castiel’s training intensifies, and it is at last suitable for the rocky terrain of their northern border to Lucifer’s territory, and even some of Raphael’s. He fights on foot, armed as best suits him, armored as best fits him, and he trains with a minimum of two partners. These, he plays off each other: one foe permanently kept in the middle, the nearest attacker serving as a shield.

Three is far harder, and four is overwhelming without dirty tactics or feigned retreat. With enough space to run, Castiel can draw them into a line, but soon his training partners learn. They line up the other way, approaching not as a spear to be knocked aside but as a wall to be smashed against.

Castiel trains all the same. Harder. Fiercer. Each day that passes with young Jack tending to his armor is another day Castiel learns yet more atrocities the boy has witnessed from his father. When Castiel is sent back once more upon the field, he will justify his current absence a hundredfold.

To make matters worse, word reaches their ears via spies and common rumors alike, that a number of Lucifer’s noble alphas are to enter the melee as well. The jab at Castiel is obvious and poorly aimed, but the attack on public morale is clear. Castiel cannot allow himself to fall to Lucifer’s alphas upon any field, and King Michael agrees: Castiel is assigned both Hannah and Balthazar to aid him in the melee. Each technically fight for themselves, as per the engagement’s rules, but they will be far from the first to prepare an alliance well in advance.

Hannah takes her appointment seriously, Balthazar with immense rolling of the eyes where King Michael cannot see, and Castiel’s training sessions evolve accordingly. Hannah and Balthazar swap roles, each attacking and defending Castiel, each forever thwarted by the other.

As the melee approaches, so too does Castiel’s thirty-fourth birthday. It comes and goes upon the training ground, the culmination of another year spent in sweat and the rejoicing scream of his muscles transcending his body.

He is given scant time to rest from the two months of training, and then he is sent out to Winchester. By Michael’s command, Castiel is accompanied by a far larger, showier escort than is truly necessary, but he cannot bring himself to object: much of the guard is to protect Jack. Eager to travel to a new land, Jack wholeheartedly embraces his role of squire despite it being awarded four years early. He is a child of ten, unpresented and small, but he knows his duties well. Still, he is young enough to fall into his role too easily, quick to show to the world his adoration of the alpha who saved him from his father, and heedless of how this might bind him to King Michael.

Castiel attempts to caution the boy, but all his too-young squire wishes to speak about is the anticipation of seeing Castiel’s love in person. Jack has even spent his own coin to purchase what should have been a thoughtful gift, a small printed portrait of Prince Dean. It’s a mass-produced trinket, a portrait of omega beauty and therefore Winchester pride, but the quality is nearly as fine as the one sent with the announcement of the melee. This one is smaller, and set into a leather case for travel. 

Castiel keeps the portrait book close, prizing it for the absolute pride on Jack’s face each time his squire sees it. For though Castiel trusts Jack as much as anyone might responsibly trust a child, he cannot correct the boy. He hasn’t even corrected Hannah, and his one attempt to inform Balthazar had only given rise to more teasing, that of Castiel being in stammering denial. And thus, his secret is entirely his own, unfit to be believed by anyone.

After all, with nearly five years of his facade, this lie of love is public knowledge. As his party departs, there are songs and cheering, all centered upon one refrain:

_Their alphas fight to no avail,_

_Our champion shall soon prevail_

_Sir Castiel will claim his prize,_

_Omega of fair emerald eyes!_

It’s completely mortifying.

Jack hums the tune their entire journey, and, naturally, Balthazar even sings along. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, to see what else I'm working on, you can follow me on [tumblr here](http://bendingsignpost.tumblr.com/).


	2. Theft and Alliances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arriving two days before the melee is to take place, Castiel seeks an alliance with a suitable alpha: namely, one he can help win in his stead. 
> 
> Against the odds, he finds one.

Deep into Winchester lands, they arrive at the capital a mere two days before the melee is to take place. Castiel submits his invitation and credentials, both his pedigree as King Michael’s third-cousin and his accomplishments leading King Michael’s northern army. The man in charge, a Lord Robert who is far more mace than sword, gruffly accepts and enters Castiel into the melee after checking a myriad of books.

“Tent blue eighteen,” the clerk beside Lord Robert informs Castiel. “My lord may arrive as early as sunrise to ready yourself for the melee, which begins at third bell. All entrants are permitted one squire or assistant to attend them, but not accompany them onto the field. Does my lord have any questions?”

“No,” Castiel replies, picking up his badge of entry. “Blue eighteen, you said?”

“The number eighteen will be on a blue flag, sir. A private tent, for a commander of your stature.”

“Thank you.”

He waits for Hannah and Balthazar to gain their badges as well, his humor only moderately improved by Balthazar’s grumbling. “A private tent for  _ you _ ,” Balthazar grouses. “What am I, a collapsible soldier? Where am I supposed to prepare?”

“If you’re not finished preparing yet, there’s no point,” Hannah tells him sternly, prompting only more eye rolling.

With their retinue in tow, they return to the crowded inn and spend the remainder of the day recovering from the road. Jack clearly itches to explore, and Castiel permits this, provided Jack remains with their guard. Balthazar is a strange choice of chaperon, in that it is Jack’s presence which makes Balthazar behave. Castiel is in the midst of his dinner when Jack returns with his guard, minus Balthazar, glowing with excitement and bouncing with praise for the strangeness of the city. 

Good. At least some joy will result from this journey.

Castiel has never forfeited without such motivation that turns defeat into victory, but the idea of accepting defeat in the melee rankles. The fact that, as of this afternoon, he will have sixty-seven opponents? Perhaps it’s vanity, perhaps it’s knowing his own worth, but going into the match expecting to lose is a mindset that suits him poorly.

“I noticed knights and lords making arrangements,” Jack mentions into the silence of Castiel’s meal. He stands at attention beside Castiel’s chair, ready to fetch things Castiel does not need. “Do you have any alliances planned? Beyond our alphas.”

Castiel cuts his meat and chews for a long, pensive time. He swallows. “That is what tomorrow is for, but many alliances in a melee are born on the field.”

“How do you know who won’t double-cross you?”

Castiel gestures for the boy to sit. Against the protocol of knights and squires but in keeping with the protocol of distant cousins made close, Castiel shifts his plate between them and passes Jack the salad fork. Jack nods and eats as Castiel explains that most betrayals don’t have time to happen, too many knocked down too soon. The first round is the bloodiest.

Some alphas fight the alpha besides them, too overcome with bloodlust to control themselves. Others will drive a group against itself, the ringleader taking the charge if leading by charisma or keeping in the center of the group if leading by coin.

The end of a melee, however, is a strategic nightmare for contestants earnest and conniving alike.

Even with blunted weapons and real armor, injuries abound. Any alpha unused to battlefield combat will rapidly grow exhausted and distracted by the smells. Any combatant unable to stand under their own power at the end of each round is removed from the field. Depending on the arena, the field may be physically shrunk between the rounds to keep the fighting hot.

And there, those fresh from inaction or hardened with endurance will clash at last. A sellsword in better condition than their master may yet turn for a larger prize. Nobility does not equate to riches nowadays, if it ever did at all. The most a team can hope for is to remain loyal to each other until they are the only combatants remaining.

“What if everyone can tell someone’s throwing the match at the end?” Jack asks. “If it’s down to you and Hannah.”

“We’d both be disqualified if it’s obvious. There’s a reason Hannah and Balthazar have practiced shielding me. They’re meant to be spent before I am.”

“Then if a lord hires a knight to fight for them, they’re hoping the knight will be exhausted by the time they’re down to a duel.”

“Essentially.”

“That doesn’t seem sporting,” Jack says, a boy who has witnessed such injustice under his father that he cannot comprehend seeing it anywhere else.

“We’ll see how they judge, here,” Castiel replies.

  
  
  
  
  


The following day, Castiel does as he’d promised Jack. He walks the training grounds permitted to the melee entrants. He lunches in a restaurant where seemingly every alpha sports a melee badge. He listens as closely as he watches, and it was only on the training grounds where he’d found himself at all impressed.

A few, a very few, he approaches. Most have already formed alliances. All rightly respond that they do not know Castiel personally, but they have heard the many songs. Preemptively, these alphas close ranks against him. Trying such overtures the day before the melee is clearly too late.

Good.

Castiel dines out for dinner as well, moving to a different, rowdier locale. There are no high lords here, lesser knights only. The second-presented alphas of families on the decline, or first-presented alphas of lower families on the rise. The sort of alphas both more willing to be bribed by coin, or to have it. Here, there’s no silk cover concealing their crassness.

Knowing already that he will not have what he’s searching for here, Castiel nevertheless strikes up stilted conversations with other alphas proudly wearing their badges. One at the bar is already in his armor, the leather dyed a vibrant red.

“Should you win, what are your plans?” Castiel asks him, watching the alpha imbibing perhaps more than is wise the night before a battle.

The alpha in red laughs hard and loud. “What are my  _ plans? _ Have you seen him?”

“I have his portrait,” Castiel replies. He pulls Jack’s gift from his inner pocket and shows the alpha. The portrait shows a pale omega with brown waves of hair to his ears, the strands highlighted a golden blond. His mouth is plush, jaw more defined than tradition would expect, but it’s his apple green eyes that are the most striking. Beyond those details, the image is almost generic in its portrayal of omega beauty.

“ _ Exactly _ ,” says the alpha in red, pointing to the picture and nudging his compatriot with his elbow. “They can hide that omega behind viewing curtains all they like, but it only takes one portrait to show off those cocksucker lips. Imagine he could take a whole knot with that mouth.”

Castiel snaps the portrait book shut.

Someone behind Castiel snorts. “Wouldn’t take much, a knot the size of yours.”

The alpha in red whirls around. “Say that to my face.”

“I said,” says a newcomer, a bearded alpha in sweat-stained gear, “that your knot could fit in a thimble, along with your little needle of a dick, after our prince bites it off.”

Behind the alpha in sweat-stained gear, there stands another alpha, impossibly taller than the first. A look of frustration and resignation passes over this taller alpha’s bearded face even before the alpha in red takes a swing at his friend.

The resulting brawl is swift and brutal, and ends with each held back by a friend and the barkeep throwing all of them out. The bearded pair both lack badges, but it’s the crass alpha in red who walks out limping beside his friend. Heads turn and eyes follow, and then yet another pair of badge wearing alphas exit, nodding to their compatriots.

Castiel abandons the rest of his barely touched beer and follows as well. He keeps his distance insofar as that’s possible, but judging from the noises already coming from the nearby alleyway, he doesn’t have far to go.

In the alley, the pair of bearded alphas use a stacked wall of crates to bottleneck their attackers. None carry swords, and indeed the space would be far too tight for so many, but fists, daggers, and a plank of wood are in evidence.

Castiel hangs back, observing.

One badge-wearing alpha goes down. The alpha in red hauls his former ally out of his way, flinging her against the stone wall. The shorter bearded alpha continues to goad them, and his taller partner continues to defend them both with a heavy crate lid as a shield. The alpha in red shouts epithets back, none complimentary, all disgusting towards omegas.

The alpha in red takes the crate lid to his upper body, and as he struggles to block this blow, the shorter bearded alpha comes in low and stabs him in the leg. With a shout, the alpha in red collapses, and the shorter bearded alpha rises with a triumphant shout, a purloined badge held high.

“Go, go, I got it!”

Both bearded alphas turn to run, and their attackers who can still run give chase. Castiel follows somewhat more slowly, pausing to relieve the first fallen alpha of her badge as well. He steps over the alphas and the discarded crate lid before breaking into a quick jog, a pace that allows him to take corners without slowing.

Shouts and growls lead him when the alleyway splits, guiding him when the scents of refuse overwhelm his nose. He finds them close to where the alley spills back out into the street—and into plain view of any pacing guard. The bearded pair continue to handle themselves the best, evidently well-experienced in fighting so closely side-by-side.

The taller one spies Castiel first. “Another one!” he announces to his ally.

Thankfully, the alphas with badges fail to realize what the bearded alpha means. Castiel kicks them both hard behind their knees, crumpling them to the ground in unwitting kneels. Both bearded alphas back up in response, the taller pulling the shorter with him with a hand on the back of his jacket.

Before the kneeling alphas can turn, Castiel punches each in the back of the head.

They collapse forward onto filthy stone. One lets out a low moan after his skull bounces off the cobblestone. Neither moves.

Castiel steps over them. He holds up the badge he’d taken from their fallen foe. “Clean yourselves up and walk with me into the street as if nothing’s wrong. Tell me why you deserve it, and I’ll give you this badge.”

The shorter bearded alpha wrests free of his partner’s grip. “Got two on the ground right here.”

Castiel positions himself between the collapsed pair and the two still standing. “Why did you pick that fight? You could have stolen badges from anyone. Why him?”

The shorter alpha bristles, freckles or spots of dirt standing out against the enraged red of his face. “The guy’s talking about giving our prince a knot-gag, and you wanna know why I laid him out?”

Castiel looks at the taller bearded alpha, who nods and calmly gestures to his companion.

“What he said.”

Castiel nods in return. “And if you won the melee? What then?”

The shorter one laughs. “Funny you should ask that.”

The pair on the ground groan again.

“We should move,” the taller alpha says. He looks to the shorter for approval.

“You’re coming with,” the shorter one tells Castiel. “Call me Hunter. This is Sammy.”

“Sir Castiel,” he answers.

Hunter frowns at him, a confused piece of attempted recognition in his eyes, but they all straighten their clothing and leave the alleyway. “Let’s grab a drink, Cas. Once you hand that badge to Sammy, of course.”

“When you answer my questions.”

Hunter clearly considers doubling back round and into the alley for the other badges, but when he and Castiel look back, there’s already a guard drawing near.

“Fine,” says Hunter. “Keep moving.”

“This way,” Sammy says.

They slip into another bar, Sammy’s choice, and they head deep inside, taking up position in a tall-backed booth of Castiel’s choosing. They look at each other in the lamplight of the booth, studying one another. Sammy’s beard is thicker, his hair long and dark brown where it falls to his ears. His frame is massive, a tall tree rather than a sturdy barrel, and his face has a strange familiarity to it.

Next to him, Hunter appears compact, for all he has at least an inch on Castiel. Hunter’s hair is cropped short, much like his beard. Beneath the beard, his jaw is sturdy. Above the beard, his skin is tanned and freckled, his eyes staggeringly green, the lashes long. He’s remarkably attractive, for an alpha.

It’s an observation Castiel notes with detached confusion. Both reek of alpha sweat and exertion, though Hunter’s scent isn’t much worse than it was in the first bar. His clothing clearly needs to be washed, worn and slightly too large as it is.

“What would you do if you won the melee?” Castiel asks again.

Arms folded on the table, each an imperfect mirror of the other, the pair of alphas glance at each other. Hunter looks to Castiel. “You first. Not sure what you’re pulling, helping us slide in.”

“I’m looking for an alliance.”

Hunter rolls his eyes. “Allies you can report for fraudulent entry between rounds when you get too tired to trust us?”

Castiel holds up his hand. “Tell me what you’d do if you won, and I’ll know if I can trust you.”

“You. First,” Hunter repeats.

“I’m a commander on the front lines for King Michael of Rapture. I fight alongside my troops and am often stationed in precarious footholds where it would be dangerous to keep a spouse. If I won the melee and successfully bonded with your prince, he would have to be stationed near the front lines or I would have to be relocated to a more distant area of command. Were we bond incompatible, I could keep my post and travel quarterly to fulfill a husband’s duties. Still not ideal, but better than endangering him or losing my command.”

Both Hunter and Sammy stare at him.

“Are you telling me,” Sammy says slowly, “that you’re here trying to win an omega you hope you’re  _ not  _ compatible with? You don’t want to mate Dean?”

“I am here because I am expected to be,” Castiel replies. “And I will be fighting because I detest losing.”

“You and me both, buddy,” Hunter says. He drums his fingers on the table, an idle beat that taps into a more familiar, embarrassing rhythm. “...Wait. Castiel of Rapture? That’s your name? Castiel Enraptured?  _ You’re _ Duke Novak-Shurley?”

“The song wasn’t my idea,” Castiel tells him.

“ _ Songs, _ ” Hunter corrects with abrupt vitriol. “Like three, four years of them.”

“Wait, what,” Sammy says. “But you’re, you’re the guy who’s supposed to have been pining after Dean for a decade?  _ A’scenting, Sire, I Will Not Go _ , that’s about you? ‘I’ll risk my life against thy foe, but a’scenting, Sire, I will not go’?”

A suspicion slowly solidifying inside his mind, Castiel answers, “That one is largely propaganda. I didn’t have to list any of my accomplishments.”

Arms crossed and leaning back, Hunter narrows his eyes at Castiel. “Fucking creepy, is what it is.”

Castiel sighs. “King Michael wished to marry me off. I told him my heart was elsewhere and agreed with his first guess.”

“Where is it, then?” Hunter asks.

“Where is what?”

“Your heart,” Hunter says. “You convince me you got some secret love you’d pass up a prince for, then maybe you’ve got yourself an alliance.”

“I am meant for the front lines,” Castiel tells him. “That is where my heart is.”

And, acting on a hunch based on a few slips of familiarity and a portrait studied two years ago, Castiel adds, looking to Sammy, “I would have been able to remain there if you’d taken longer to wed.”

Sammy’s eyes widen. Barely.

“Congratulations on your child, Your Highness,” Castiel adds.

Hunter starts to leave the booth, but Sam—Samuel Winchester—grabs his companion’s arm.

“Thank you,” Prince Samuel says. “I guess the beard doesn’t work on everyone. But let’s drop the formalities where people can hear.”

Castiel nods. “King Michael was sent a portrait of you and your mate. A very accurate one, it seems. I assume if you’re planning to fight for your brother, you intend your friend here to win.”

Hunter and Prince Samuel exchange another one of those inscrutable looks.

“Yes,” they say in unison.

“You don’t have the pedigree to compete?” Castiel asks Hunter.

“You could say something like that,” Hunter agrees.

“He’s the one Dean wants to win,” Prince Samuel says. “Badly enough for me to sneak us both in. Neither of us are exactly allowed to compete, but if we can make it to the end and the crowd sees Hunter remove his helmet… Maybe public opinion will sway my father.”

Castiel looks to Hunter. “You’ll treat him well?”

Hunter bristles. “He’s not this  _ thing _ you’re passing off to me before anyone’s even won.”

“No,” Castiel replies, “but I am choosing whether to lose for you. Moreover, to help place a human soul into your keeping. So again I ask: will you treat him well?”

“Better than anyone else could,” Hunter says.

Castiel looks to Prince Samuel. 

“Better even than me,” Prince Samuel agrees. 

Castiel slides Prince Samuel the badge.

With a faint smile, Prince Samuel replies, “Thank you.”

Castiel nods back. “You’ll need a tent to prepare yourselves in. Mine is blue eighteen. We can talk strategy there. Warm up together. Do you have any other allies?”

“Some,” Hunter says. “Sammy here’s been keeping me a bit of a secret, but they know to fall in behind me.”

“Will they?”

“They better,” Prince Samuel says. “I’ve put out the word that we have our champion. A couple are pissed it’s not them, but they’ll deal. What about you?”

“I have two more who are here to compete for me. I trust them both, but I’d prefer if they weren’t disillusioned as to my affections. When this is over, I need them to convince our king I’m too heartbroken to seek another mate.”

With a somewhat bemused expression, Prince Samuel nods. “We’ve got a big enough group to split in two at the first round. Should throw people off when we regroup after the casualties start. Do your people know when to yield?”

“They’re here to help ensure none of Lucifer’s alphas win,” Castiel replies with a touch of apology. “I’m afraid it’s become a matter of national pride. Still, they’re prepared to fall before I do. It would reflect extremely poorly on them to do otherwise. With mine and yours combined, how many do we have?”

“Counting everyone at this table, twenty-three,” Prince Samuel says. “Not bad for a melee we had to cap out at one hundred.”

Castiel nods, the tension of his shoulders easing. “And how many of yours do you trust completely?”

“Including us?” Prince Samuel asks, indicating himself and Hunter. “Twelve.”

“Two,” Hunter says. He stares a challenge at Castiel, but Castiel simply nods in return.

“I have five, I hope,” Castiel replies.

Prince Samuel smiles faintly. “I hope so too.”

For a long moment, they all stare down at the table. Breathing. Thinking. Planning.

At last, Hunter exhales a shaky breath that soon turns into an unsteady chuckle. “Oh man,” he says. “We’re doing this. We’re actually doing this.”

Prince Samuel wraps an arm around Hunter’s shoulders and squeezes the once. “Now we have to get away with it.”

Hunter lifts his glass. “Here’s to dumb ideas.”

They clink a toast, and seal their alliance with a drink.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Castiel arrives at the tent shortly after sunrise, unwilling to allow either Prince Samuel or Hunter to arrive before him. He has left word at the inn for Balthazar and Hannah to keep their distance and join him only once they see his newer alliance split in half, the better to keep Prince Samuel’s secret. His retinue remains outside the tent, guarding Jack more than him. 

Jack also sets up the pocket portrait of Prince Dean on the table beside the water jugs and refreshments, but Castiel sees no reason to deny him this. The portrait is a thing of pride for Jack, as much as the image itself has clearly been softened. All noble omegas are painted without blemish or flaw, their unmarked necks lengthened, their mouths rendered smaller to suggest an inability to bite. The pale skin and golden gleam on the light brown hair might be accurate, as well as the fabled emerald eyes, but here at least, Prince Dean’s beauty errs on the side of generic. Too young to realize this, Jack excitedly gestures to the portrait while he fastens Castiel into his armor, until Castiel asks for silence.

Castiel stretches in his armor. Has Jack make adjustments.

He drops to the floor and practices standing. Has Jack make adjustments.

He tests the weight of his blunted weapons again and again, uncertain whether one of the melee monitors will find fault with the swords when they come to make their inspections. He confirms the exact order in which he favors them.

And then there’s little to do beyond wait. No use to worry whether Prince Samuel and Hunter will show. Whether they’ve been caught. Whether they really do have an alliance already established behind Hunter.

He has to remind himself that he doesn’t wish to win.

One hour before the melee begins, his allies arrive. Castiel’s retinue outside stops the pair until Castiel grants them permission. Both Hunter and Prince Samuel enter already in their armor, steel helmets obscuring their faces.

Castiel sizes them up, Prince Samuel in heavy armor better suited to the joust, Hunter in worn, padded leather still reeking of the practice yard. Prince Samuel carries with him an immense shield, an absurd size that becomes proportional only in his hands. On his back, there hangs a blunted spear. Hunter’s sword and shield sport the same wear and tear as his armor, and the shield notably lacks any emblem or insignia.

“Hunter,” Castiel greets with a nod. “And… Sammy.”

“Good to see you,” Prince Samuel answers, lifting the faceplate of his helmet to reveal merciful amusement. It glints in his deep hazel eyes, an eternally unexpected color given the fame of his brother’s.

Jack dutifully offers them water or wine, and Prince Samuel accepts the water with the grace of a royal.

“Guess there’s no beer,” Hunter says with a sigh, removing his helm to scratch at his scalp. He crosses to the table with the glasses and drinks, takes nothing, and regards the portrait. “Well, ain’t that something.”

“It was a gift from my squire,” Castiel explains, indicating Jack.

“Squire?” Prince Samuel asks. “Not a page?”

“My squire,” Castiel confirms.

“It’s not very accurate,” Hunter says, picking up the offending picture. And by his tone, it is certainly offending. “ _ Way _ too pretty. They do all of these way too soft.”

Jack bristles, standing at attention with his wide eyes darting to Castiel. Jack vibrates like a plucked string awaiting the conductor’s next instruction.

In a deliberately casual tone—insofar as Castiel is capable of casual tones—Castiel asks, “How does the prince respond when you tell him such things?”

“Oh, he agrees,” Prince Samuel answers quickly.

“Dean’s handsome, not  _ pretty, _ ” Hunter corrects.

“No, he’s adorable,” Prince Samuel says in a baiting tone.

Hunter responds with an extremely rude gesture that merely causes the prince to laugh. The pair are nearly brothers already.

“Excuse me, sirs, but do you know Prince Dean personally?” Jack asks.

“Pretty talkative for a squire,” Hunter remarks to Castiel.

“I encourage his curiosity,” Castiel replies. “Regardless, you may trust him as well as you trust me.”

“Uh-huh,” Hunter says, clearly doubtful. He looks to Prince Samuel, but Prince Samuel merely shrugs in return, a shifting clatter of metal accompanying the motion. “Yeah, kid. We know him.”

“Speaking of which,” Prince Samuel says, eyeing the closed tent flaps. “You’ve had your weapons checked already, right?”

“No, not yet,” Castiel replies. “The inspector should be here soon, though. There’s not much time left.”

“Ah,” says Hunter.

“Yeah,” says Prince Samuel. “We should, um. Duck out until after he’s been by.”

His entire face a question, Jack looks at Castiel.

“Yeah, ‘scuse us,” Hunter says, pulling his helmet back on over his short brown hair. Prince Samuel lowers his own face plate.

Castiel follows the pair as they exit, only to nearly walk into the wall of metal that is Prince Samuel.

“Fuck,” says Hunter.

Down the row of tents, the inspectors are still far off, but the gleam of shining armor has clearly drawn the attention of one. Lord Robert, if Castiel remembers both name and face correctly.

“Fuck,” Prince Samuel agrees.

“Don’t you dare move!” Lord Robert bellows, already jogging their way as quickly as his heavy, ceremonial jacket will allow.

Hunter immediately bolts, but Prince Samuel holds his ground.

Hunter looks back. Throws up his hands. “Seriously?”

“It’s now or at the gate,” Prince Samuel points out, only barely muffled through his face plate. He turns to greet Lord Robert, the older man clearly sweating heavily beneath thickly embroidered brocade. “Hi, Bobby. Come inside?”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Lord Robert demands of the prince.

Hunter returns at a slow, sulking pace that cares nothing for how witnesses stare.

Lord Robert points into the tent with such absolute sternness, such conviction of being obeyed, that Castiel immediately thinks Hunter must be Lord Robert’s son. Except that would make little sense. Surely that would grant Hunter the proper pedigree to enter the melee. Any noble alpha might, and Hunter’s armor is stained with alpha sweat to the point of dreadful fumes.

...Ah.

Perhaps Hunter is Lord Robert’s bastard.

Castiel backs into his tent, permitting the three entry. Despite Hunter’s slow steps, Lord Robert is the last to enter, glaring daggers at Hunter until Hunter goes inside first.

“Who are you and what are you doing here with these two?” Lord Robert asks Castiel once the flaps close behind them.

“Sir Castiel of Rapture. Third-cousin to King Michael, and Commander of His Majesty’s Northern Army. This is my tent.”

Lord Robert jerks a thumb at the targets of his ire. “Do you know who these two are?”

“Prince Samuel of Winchester, and his brother’s chosen champion.”

Jack gasps, but Lord Robert’s reaction is anything but surprise.

“Dean’s champion,” Lord Robert repeats. He rolls his eyes up toward the heavens. “Boys,” he says, rounding on Hunter and Prince Samuel, “do you have any idea how goddamn stupid you are?”

“Don’t care,” Hunter says. “I’ve read the rules. Sammy’s been over them closer than any barrister, and  _ any _ combatant who wins through fair fight on the field takes the prize. Doesn’t say anything about station, breeding, designation, any of it.”

“Fighting under their own badge!” Lord Robert berates him in a hissed yell, clearly restrained only for the thinness of the tent. “Not stolen or bought.”

Shaking his head, Hunter holds up both hands. “Just lemme into the fight, and-”

“Are you out of your fool mind?” Lord Robert demands. “Do you have any idea how panicked your mother’s been all night? Poor woman thinks you’ve run off to some monastery.”

“Bobby, he can win,” Prince Samuel argues.

“And get thrown right out of the field the second he pulls off that helmet,” Lord Robert replies. “ _ If  _ he makes it through. Doesn’t matter. Neither of you can compete-”

“Spoils of combat,” Castiel interrupts.

“Excuse you?” asks Lord Robert, turning to face him.

“The badges are spoils of combat,” Castiel continues. “I can serve as witness. The original owners were bested in combat that they agreed to participate in. Traditionally, that would count as a preliminary round. There was no betting, nothing to disqualify it.”

“That’s a stretch and you know it,” Lord Robert says.

“They were talking about knot-gagging Dean,” Prince Samuel says bluntly.

Castiel turns to cover Jack’s ears. It’s too late. And by the look of shock on his face, it’s doubly too late to stop him from understanding what that is.

Lord Robert sighs heavily. He groans, pulling his hat from his thinning hair. He looks at Hunter.

“C’mon, please,” Hunter says. “You can’t tell me alphas like that deserve to win more than I do.”

Lord Robert looks at Hunter with equal parts exasperation and heartbreak. “Boy, the king doesn’t care what you deserve.”

“But you do,” Hunter replies. “Please.”

Bunching up his hat, Lord Robert bunches up his face even tighter, awful tastes clearly vying inside his mouth. He turns away from Hunter with a muttered curse of “ _ Balls. _ ”

Both Hunter and Prince Samuel sag, smiles across their faces.

“Thank you.”

“Thank you, Bobby.”

Lord Robert rounds on them. On all of them, his accusing finger pointing to everyone, Jack included. “We didn’t have this talk.”

“My words as chains to bind me,” Castiel promises.

“My words as chains,” Jack echoes faintly.

“ _ Thank you _ ,” Hunter repeats, moving in to embrace Lord Robert, who hugs back with a grudging strength.

“When you get dragged out halfway and have to explain your broken jaw to your mother, don’t look for help from me,” Lord Robert warns him. Still, when he pulls back, he tugs on Hunter’s leather armor, adjusting the fit. “And don’t get your skull cracked open. You couldn’t find any plate mail, boy?”

“You know I don’t have any of my own,” Hunter protests. “I can’t exactly borrow a set without somebody noticing.”

“I’m protecting him, Bobby.” Prince Samuel indicates his massive shield, laid on the tent floor. “We’ve got a good strategy and a decent number of alliances. Cas here is the last one we’re bringing into the loop. Just about to get him caught up before we realized you were still coming to inspect.”

“Why him?” Lord Robert asks, indicating Castiel as if an unfeeling mannequin. “I know that name: it’s got a whole night’s worth of catchy little ditties to go with it.”

“Because he was asking intentions,” Hunter says. “Treating an omega like a spouse instead of a prize might be a low bar, but he’s cleared it.”

Lord Robert studies Castiel as Hunter answers, but it’s Jack who Lord Robert points to. “You look like a page with something to say.”

“A squire, my lord,” Jack answers.

“Short for it. And what is it you’re bursting to tell us?” Lord Robert asks.

Jack looks up at Castiel and swallows.

Braced for the fallout of disillusioning the boy, Castiel nods. “Go on, Jack.”

“I’ve never seen you give up,” Jack says, a waver beneath his voice. “You’ve trained so hard, for so long. I don’t…”

Castiel kneels. “Jack, do you understand who this is?” He indicates Prince Samuel.

Jack nods.

“His Highness says his brother wishes for Hunter to win,” Castiel says.

“But you could,” Jack says, a statement of pride and bias, devoid of analytical assessment. “Why are you giving up?”

Castiel takes Jack’s hand. “Your father sends spies to reclaim your mother. Should we let him?”

“No,” Jack says before the question is even finished. “That’s not- You’re not like him. You’re good. You’re a good alpha.”

“To love someone is to fight for their choice, Jack,” Castiel tells the boy. “I want you to remember that. Always. Your mother didn’t want you to accompany me, but she knew you wanted to see the melee. As much as your father’s spies frighten her, she fought for your choice. I know you understand that.”

Castiel points to Hunter, the man frozen awkwardly between Lord Robert and Prince Samuel. “Hunter is Prince Dean’s choice. Which means we will fight for him, and I know you understand that too.”

Jack looks down at his feet.

Castiel kneels lower.

“Do you understand me, Jack?”

Jack nods, not looking back at him. “Yes, my lord.”

Castiel stands, gripping Jack’s shoulder as he rises. When he turns to face the other adults in the tent, all three are staring at him silently. Lord Robert’s eyebrows push up against the brim of his hat. Prince Samuel’s expression might be best described as one of pleasant surprise.

Hunter is unreadable.

Lord Robert clears his throat. “I’ll just take a look over your weapons, then…”

While Lord Robert does so, Castiel says to Hunter, “I assume Prince Samuel’s choice of armor and shield means he’ll be defending you directly.”

Hunter nods slowly. “When our alliance clusters, how do you feel about raiding parties?”

Surprising himself, Castiel smiles widely. “Of course. To disguise the party, I propose that after the initial gathering, before the melee begins, we stage a break in alliance. Your group will take a more stationary position. Mine will circle and intercept. We regroup when our numbers fall. What are our numbers?”

“Of the forty-one local entries, I’ve recruited eighteen,” Prince Samuel says. “Of those, I trust ten absolutely not to turn. All our eighteen know I’m in the melee myself, though.”

“Are they loyal to you or your brother?” Castiel asks.

“Both, for the ten I trust. The other eight are pandering to their future king,” Prince Samuel says bluntly.

Castiel nods. “Then I’ll take the eight.”

Hunter says, “Good, ‘cause that’s who we were sticking you with.”

Lord Robert snorts. “Don’t bother sugarcoating it, boy.” He straightens up with a groan, his spine audibly popping. “All in order, nothing sharp enough to puncture, everything sturdy enough to bludgeon an alpha to death. Try not to do that, by the way. We’re going to have at least a few fatalities because  _ someone _ decided to be a dumbass and pick a melee over jousting.”

Very pointedly, Lord Robert looks at Hunter.

“What, like they wouldn’t notice  _ my horse _ getting smuggled in? People die jousting too,” Hunter states. “Seriously, the whole tournament courtship is complete bullshit.”

Lord Robert sighs with the resignation of a long-lived, stubborn argument. “Don’t either of you boys dare die.” He looks to Castiel. “And don’t you dare let them.”

Castiel nods.

Lord Robert takes one last look at Hunter and Prince Samuel before departing.

Silence holds for too long a pause after the tent flaps close behind him.

Castiel asks Hunter, “As to the raiding party, will your alphas follow me at your orders?”

“They would at Sammy’s, yeah,” says Hunter. “But why the hell do you think we’d hand that over to you?”

“Because positions of authority attract betrayal. I imagine you’re less invested in my well-being than that of those you know but do not trust.”

Hip against the refreshment table, Hunter folds his arms and regards Castiel. “More like we know them well enough to know how far to trust them. You, I’m still figuring out. You’re going a long way to help someone you don’t know shit about.”

“ _ Jack _ ,” Castiel says, holding out a hand before the boy can do more than inhale sharply.

“C’mon, man, you can’t even control your own tiny squire,” Hunter says.

Castiel looks at Jack.

Jack looks at Castiel.

“Your decision,” Castiel tells the boy whose life has been risk and misery, changed for risk and hiding.

Jack says, “I will need to formally meet Prince Samuel eventually.”

The other alphas in the tent palpably shift with confusion at Jack’s answer, and this is before Castiel shifts himself: he lowers his head, clasps his hands before him, and takes on the proper deference toward his king’s nephew and tertiary heir.

Castiel speaks in a quiet, clear voice, pitched to remain inside the tent. “I have the honor to introduce Prince Jonathan Shurley, Prince of Rapture, Duke of Hell.”

“I prefer Jack,” says Jack. “You will not disparage my cousin within my hearing. Any commander would seize his opponent’s fleeing heir, but few would return for that heir’s mother. Not at personal risk.”

“You’re… Lucifer Shurley’s son,” Prince Samuel says.

“If the world were just, I would be Castiel’s,” Jack says, forcing Castiel’s heart to break and melt at once. Hard iron and weary ash temper themselves into steel, watching the boy fight not to tremble under the attention of armed strangers. “He fought for my mother, and that was before they met. He didn’t know her. If he can risk his life for someone he doesn’t even love that way, you shouldn’t question him doing the same for someone he does.”

Prince Samuel begins to say something, but Hunter demonstrates the true depth of the pair’s bond:

He interrupts a prince.

“Highness, I can tell you believe everything you’re saying, all the way down to the ground,” Hunter says, “but Cas here doesn’t know a thing about Dean.”

Castiel places his hand back on Jack’s shoulder. “I know he was training among squires when he was too young, much like Jack. I know he’s inspired an immense degree of loyalty both within his family and without. He clearly trusts you both immensely in return. Not just you yourself, but your prowess on the field. He’s intelligent in his selection of tournament for you to sneak into: a joust requires confirming the combatant’s identity before each round, and you would both be found out.

“And,” Castiel finishes, looking Hunter very much in the eye, “I know he would prefer to be called handsome over pretty, regardless of being famed for having eyes as green as yours.”

Hunter looks away first.

“Is that sufficient?” Castiel asks, redirecting the question toward Prince Samuel.

“Yeah,” Prince Samuel replies, the slightest chuckle tinging the word. “I’d say you’ve gotten a pretty good summary. The raiding party is yours.”

Jaw tight, Hunter nods as well.

“Is there anything else I should know?” Castiel asks, only to have a series of horns sound from outside the tent.

“Too late now,” Hunter says with a shrug. He pulls his helm down and secures the visor in place, the eye slit wide. “Sammy, you ready?”

“Yeah,” answers Prince Samuel, hefting his shield back onto his arm.

With quick, stiff motions, Jack checks Castiel’s armor one final time. They look at each other. Nod at each other. As Castiel leans down, Jack hangs Castiel’s badge around his neck, then steps in and hugs him tight.

“Stay with your guards,” Castiel reminds him. “Don’t feel guilty about being in the stands. You’re not permitted to bring me aid between the rounds anyway.”

“Yes, sir,” Jack says quietly.

With one last tight squeeze, they separate. They leave the tent, all four of them, and Castiel follows Prince Samuel and Hunter to the assembling point. Horn blasts hurry them along, and the cries of a distant crowd draw them onward.

They stop outside the arena. The last time Castiel was here, he’d sat inside it, waiting on King Michael as the arena changed itself from one event to the next. Horse racing transitioned to jousting. An immense net rose to hang across one side of the arena, and an archery contest took place. Time may have blurred those memories, but a sense of the space remains. The scale of their battlefield, and the lack of cover or other terrain advantages in a packed dirt floor. With the recent lack of rain, it won’t be muddy, and should absorb blood well. It may also be dusty.

The gates funnel the competitors behind the walls, then beneath the seats. Each alpha hands over their badge to be permitted into one of the waiting areas. Castiel passes through without issue. Hunter joins him within a minute, eyes visibly wide beneath his helm.

“Is… Sammy being stopped?” Castiel asks, the only point of concern that comes to mind. He’s already caught sight of Balthazar in the crowd, already shaken his head to keep him from approaching.

“Maybe,” Hunter says, looking back through the growing alpha throng. “Pretty tall, kinda stands out, even in this crowd.”

Castiel looks at Hunter then. Looks closer. Scents closer.

Hunter glares in return but doesn’t step back. “Got the sniffles, buddy?”

“You were with him this morning,” Castiel realizes. This close, it’s apparent even beneath the stink of too many training sessions without cleaning his armor.

Hunter pales. “I, of course I was with Sammy, we were both with Sammy three seconds ago.”

Castiel shakes his head. “His brother. Are you carrying a token from him?”

“Yeah, fine, I am,” Hunter says, as defensive as a boy with his first crush. “Kinda worried about people catching the scent, so shut up.”

Castiel nods, but wonders. Sparking a chase might be just the thing, later, tricking already tired competitors into running after a perceived omega. Lost in bloodlust, those without discipline can be fooled that way, Castiel knows, but it would make Hunter a target.

Hunter keeps looking back, biting his lip harder the longer it takes for Prince Samuel to follow. “Seriously, if  _ he’s _ the one who gets caught in all this...”

Castiel places his hand on Hunter’s shoulder.

Hunter turns to face him.

“Have you been in live combat before?” Castiel asks.

The taut silence across Hunter’s features is answer enough, the gap in their ages lengthened with inexperience.

“Keep your head,” Castiel tells him, words as firm as his hand. “Ignore the smells, and  _ do not chase _ . When they come to you, you learn their movements. When you go to them, you waste your energy. When they charge, fall back, turn aside, and strike them from the side. We have no line to hold here. Any group that seeks to split yours becomes iron between the hammer and anvil.”

As Castiel speaks, Hunter nods. His eyes focus more sharply, and his breathing steadies.

“Have you practiced against multiple opponents at once?” Castiel asks.

Hunter shakes his head. “Just with Sam. Had to keep it, y’know. Private.”

“There are three ways to thin the numbers,” Castiel replies. “Your surroundings will block them. Creating distance will draw them into a line. And cowardice or injury will render them useless.”

“Yeah,” Hunter says, nodding. “Yeah, all right.”

“If you’d prefer me to stay close, I will.”

Hunter shakes his head but clasps Castiel’s shoulder in return. “Thanks.”

He really does have the most remarkably green eyes, Castiel thinks in the back of his mind. It’s a small wonder why Prince Dean’s scent clings to him, a scent as alluring as Hunter is handsome. They’ll make a fine couple, and yet…

For the first time, Castiel considers what it might have been to fight in earnest, but now, it’s far too late.

“Of course,” he simply replies instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, to see what else I'm working on, you can follow me on [tumblr here](http://bendingsignpost.tumblr.com/).


	3. Combat and Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The melee begins, bodies fall, and scents thicken.

“ _There_ you are,” Prince Samuel says from behind Castiel.

Castiel and Hunter both turn, and there stands Prince Samuel, a small retinue at his heels. Hunter hastily releases Castiel’s shoulder, and Castiel does the same. If Prince Samuel thinks anything of it, the visor of his helmet conceals those thoughts.

“Castiel, I’m going to introduce you to the group. Call your people over after we do the split if you want to disguise who you’re fighting for. Hunter, stay put until Castiel’s group splits off.”

“I know the drill, Sammy,” Hunter says, and his tone very much betrays his nerves and tetchiness.

Prince Samuel pays him no mind, gesturing for Castiel to follow. Castiel complies, shaking his head faintly at Balthazar. As Castiel passes him, Hunter pats his shoulder in parting. Castiel looks back in time to receive another nod, but then Prince Samuel draws his attention toward where they’re headed.

At one of the walls of this vast yet crowded waiting room, there stands a cluster of alphas in distinctively Winchester-style gear. It’s by far one of the largest groups assembled, obviously due to combatants already knowing each other.

“This is nearly everyone,” Prince Samuel says, gesturing for everyone to round up in a tight circle. From there, Prince Samuel goes around the circle, naming each in rapid succession. He introduces Castiel to his group. Andy and his twin Ansem carry blunted sword and dagger, followed by Ava with the daggers alone, Jake with long sword, Lily with a mace, Max with sword and shield, Scott with a spear, and Gordon with another long sword. That’s enough names to remember for now, and Castiel promptly forgets the names of those remaining in Prince Samuel’s group.

“Everyone, this is Castiel. He has the most real field experience out of all of us,” Prince Samuel states. “Forward group, you will listen to his tactics. He’ll join you, along with two of his fighters. They don’t know who I am, and we’re keeping it that way. The rest of you are with me.

Clearing his throat and standing tall, Prince Samuel continues in a more formal tone, “A melee’s not a war, but today, all of you will take it just as seriously. This is for my brother’s happiness, which is my happiness, which is that of your future king. Prove to me my trust in you is not misplaced.” Prince Samuel looks around the circle, catching each alpha’s eyes one combatant at a time. “Any questions?”

“I’d like to talk tactics with our new addition here,” says Ava, indicating Castiel.

Prince Samuel nods. “We separate from here. We don’t regroup until you need to fall back, or we need reinforcements. Don’t nod, don’t confirm. Last chance to talk before we split.”

Silence.

“All right,” Prince Samuel says. “Go.”

In a remarkably practiced display, the respective halves immediately begin to argue with each other. Prince Samuel seizes two of his fellows by the arms and tugs them away, off in Hunter’s direction. Castiel follows his lead and draws the twins in the opposite direction. As he does, he manages to catch Balthazar’s eye and nod.

At that, both Balthazar and Hannah emerge from the crowd. Hannah falls into step behind Castiel, but Balthazar grins himself forward, his arm slinging companionably around Castiel’s shoulders. The chain mail protecting his underarm scrapes against the back of Castiel’s helmet. Castiel responds with an arm around Balthazar’s waist, primarily to check that Balthazar also brought water.

“So what’s it to be, alphas?” Balthazar asks. He punctuates the greeting with two taps of the gauntlet against Castiel’s shoulder. “Establish a line, form a circle? Backstab everyone once the horn sounds?”

“Ignore him,” Castiel tells the group, and Balthazar releases him with a roll of the eyes and a gesture of faux-apology. “You. Jake, was it? Are you the captain?”

“I am,” Jake replies, his stern brows supported by the thick foundation of his nose. “And to you, stranger, I would be ‘Captain Talley’.”

“Then to you, stranger,” Castiel replies, with only the slightest hint of a bow, “I would be ‘Commander Novak-Shurley.’”

Recognition peers only tentatively through Captain Talley’s eyes until Ava beside him taps his shoulder and murmurs. “King Michael of Rapture’s squire, cousin, and commander.”

Jake Talley’s stance shifts. “I see,” he replies. He exhales. “Sorry, wasn’t expecting Sam to go adding to the party at this point.”

“Understandable,” Castiel says. “Captain Talley, you know your companions best. What plans have you prepared?”

With a wary eye trained on Castiel, clearly waiting for an outsider to usurp him, Jake Talley positions the group according to their strengths and reaches. “And when I say pull back, we pull back,” he finishes. He looks pointedly at Castiel.

Castiel nods.

“I have a question,” Hannah puts forward. “The second group. Will they come to us, or we will regroup with them?”

“Whatever group needs to fall back, falls back,” Jake Talley tells her, as if this ought to be obvious.

“Even if that means giving up an advantageous position that could be held with reinforcements?”

Jake Talley looks to Castiel with the clear indication that Prince Samuel should have been the one to specify this.

“They don’t put additional terrain into the arena here, do they?” Castiel asks.

“Not that I’ve ever seen,” says another alpha who seems very comfortable with his blade. Gordon, Prince Samuel had called him. “There’s-”

A horn blows.

“Time’s up,” says one of the twins with a nervous laugh. The other one simply narrows his eyes toward the opening door and the hallway beyond, leading out into sunlight.

“Everyone stay together,” Jake Talley orders, and they do. Castiel keeps to the rear, the better to observe what is, temporarily, to be his team. Balthazar insinuates himself forward to better reconnoiter, and Hannah remains at Castiel’s side.

“Who was the alpha you were talking to, before?” she asks.

“Can you describe them?” Castiel asks in return.

“Younger. Steel helmet but leather armor, poorly cleaned, if cleaned at all.”

Castiel nods. Hunter, then, not Prince Samuel. The easier member of the pair to explain. “Nervous young alpha,” he replies. “His first time in real combat outside of bar fights. I gave him some advice.”

“To avoid you,” Hannah says, and when Castiel looks back at her, the curve of her mouth beneath her helm hints toward both truth and joke.

“That too,” Castiel replies. “Have you seen any of Lucifer’s alphas yet?”

“Not yet.” The set of her shoulders explains the welcome she’ll give them far better than her words ever could. “I do know the tents on the other side filtered into another entrance. I imagine we were deliberately kept apart.”

“I agree.”

As they step outside, Castiel lowers his head to prevent the sunlight from blinding him. The sound hits first, the clamor of a filled arena. Dust rises up to their ankles, the dry packed dirt of their battlefield stirred up by every entrant ahead of them.

On most sides, the stands aren’t terribly tall, but on the highest side, that built into a hill, is the royal box. Framed by banners, King John sits tall and stern beside the obligatory scented omega curtain that doubtlessly conceals his mate, older son, and daughter-in-law. Beside the king is an empty chair: Prince Samuel’s. From his seat on high, the king regards all of them with a stony expression.

At the front of the box, there stands a timekeeper candle in a tall, glass case. By the gleam, timer nails have already been struck into the side of the wax, ready to drop and ring out upon metal. How long the rounds? At this distance, it’s difficult to say. The servant with the horn will certainly let them know when the time comes.

As for the arena itself, dry and dusty is the order of the day. Anyone who is knocked down will surely have a fit of coughing before they rise. Throats will dry faster. The more unscrupulous among them will use that to their advantage, one way or another. To protect his own reputation, Castiel must refrain from overtly kicking the dust up into combatants’ eyes, but beyond that, there are possibilities.

The space isn’t as small as he’d feared it might be, given the hundred contestants. There’s ample space to maneuver and split into further factions. How many are present to fight for themselves and how many are simply padding to alliances, Castiel can’t yet tell.

The number of alliances, however, grows increasingly clear as the full hundred fills the arena floor. Groups clump. Clusters separate. Alphas exchange looks with those next to them, and each negotiates by word or body language as to who shall be the first target. The corners of the arena have already been claimed by those confident enough in their abilities to not think themselves cornered. Only time will tell for them.

“Cassie, up front,” Balthazar calls, jerking his head pointedly. Castiel looks and sees.

“Up front,” Castiel agrees. It puts him on the side of their group away from Prince Samuel and Hunter, puts him facing enemies, his own body forming the border between enemy and ally. It also allows him to see Alistair diagonally across the arena, the alpha’s tall helmet purposefully unmistakable. Given that the arena is a rectangle, it does put Alistair and Prince Samuel’s group nearly as far apart as possible.

The odds of Alistair approaching during the first round are slim. He’d want more of the arena’s attention. Perhaps Alistair really is here to seek the prince’s hand for an alliance, but only a fool would ignore the blow to Rapture’s morale, should Lucifer’s alpha prevail where Castiel does not. Especially should they clash directly.

By unspoken agreement, every alliance begins to press back from the center of the arena. Castiel looks back to find that Prince Samuel’s group has secured a spot by the arena wall: protected on one side without being boxed in. The raiding party shuffles back toward them, taking up a position adjacent to Prince Samuel, not the walls. Threats in only two directions, for Prince Samuel. Standing with Balthazar beside him and Hannah behind him, Castiel is in much the same position.

While everyone takes position, a horn trumpets from the royal box. All turn to face the speaker standing at the forefront of the box. Certainly, all are meant to turn. Wary stances and drawn weapons are by far the norm, heads turned only as far as required.

“My king, my lords, and your esteemed guests!” a man in Winchester colors announces from beside the royal box. “Listen all and listen well, for the melee for the fair prince’s hand is soon to commence!”

The stands erupt into cheers.

The next few words are lost beneath the jubilation, but continue into flowery praise of the local competitors. Different sections of the stands applaud at different names, but the praised alphas surrounding Castiel don’t acknowledge these accolades. Good. It wouldn’t be wise to draw such blatant attention to their alliance.

The list of notables continues, seemingly without end for such a large field of competitors. Eyes on his opponents-to-be, Castiel tries with little success to attach names and summarized accomplishments to these alphas. Some have more bravado than sense and call attention to themselves, but many do not.

Upon Castiel’s own name and titles being cried out, however, Balthazar nudges him, nodding toward the stands to where Jack whoops, clapping with hands raised over his head. Castiel nods back to the boy, and Jack jumps up and down briefly before being tugged back down by his guards.

“Not sure whose heart you’d break more by losing, yours or his,” Balthazar says beneath his breath.

Jack’s, Castiel is sure.

Castiel adjusts his grip on his weapon.

The list of notable competitors does eventually prove itself to be abridged, as neither Hannah nor Balthazar are announced. Alistair, however, is. There’s politics in that, but hardly as much in the single look Castiel and the man exchange once more across the field.

At last, the list does end.

“The rules for the melee are as follows,” the announcer finally calls out.

“First, that an alpha shall be considered defeated when they are no longer capable of fighting! Any alpha who surrenders or can no longer stand shall be considered defeated!

“Second, that all combatants shall remain in place each time the horns blow thrice! At which time, all defeated alphas incapable of leaving the field of battle shall be escorted out! Should there be _any_ combat during this period, the initiating party shall be disqualified!

“Third, that all combatants will conduct themselves with the dignity and honor befitting the future mate of our fair prince!”

At the last, the stands clap and cheer yet again.

The announcer turns to the royal box, gesturing to where King John now stands. King John holds up both hands, and the entire arena hushes into silence.

Castiel immediately looks away, eyes ahead.

“The battle may commence!” the king declares, and it immediately does.

Alphas charge toward in an immediate clash of shouts and steel. With sword and buckler, Castiel catches the first blade swung toward him, and Balthazar brings down his blunted sword on the attacking alpha’s wrist. The snap of bone and scent of blood are no sooner perceived than lost beneath the jumble. They kick the alpha the rest of the way down, knocking him into the knees of those behind him.

And so it begins, as battles always begin: with an unsustainable rush that must be sustained, or endured.

Serving as a shield, Balthazar stays to Castiel’s right. Serving as a wall, Hannah remains behind him. The motions of the rest of the raiding party fit together only roughly, marking Castiel, Hannah, and Balthazar out as a tight three-person unit amid the greater group. Their captain shouts out which direction needs reinforcing, and this is how they turn. This is how they travel, working their way clockwise around Prince Samuel’s group, toward the wall.

They reach the wall and draw inward, crushing a group of eight alphas between Prince Samuel’s party and their own. One of the members of the raiding party, one of the twins, he slumps against the wall, and so the party remains in place despite Captain Talley’s commands to the contrary.

Castiel presses forward toward the point of their spear, but hardly all the way. Prince Samuel wishes for the raiding party to fall first, this much is obvious, but Castiel needn’t fall with it. He finds the middling heat, and his partners move with him. Captain Talley successfully gets his cohorts back under control, and they begin to rotate their members from the edge of the fight to the protected center of the group.

When Castiel is breathing hard, pulling in measured breaths through his nose to avoid the rising dust, the horn begins to sound. Once, and his opponent still attacks. Twice, and Castiel returns the blow. Thrice, and they pull part, regarding each other from but a few strides away.

Polite clapping sounds from the stands, though a fair amount is pitying as the first casualties are pulled from the field. _Escorted_ is hardly the term when unconscious or groaning alphas are bodily dragged from the arena. Boots scratch furrows through the dust, and blood waters that barren field.

The longer they stand, the more the scent of blood clearly riles those less accustomed to live combat. If anything, the familiarity calms Castiel: this is where he knows what to do.

Keeping an eye on the fallen alphas, Castiel drinks from his waterskin just enough to wash the coating of dust from his throat. He tucks it away and draws his sword well before the horns sound again, releasing them into battle anew.

With Hannah and Balthazar beside him, with command resting upon another, Castiel permits his body to move in advance of his mind. Blows are seen and parried. Blocked. Countered. Balthazar’s motions are a language Castiel’s limbs know how to speak; they converse and converge upon their foes. Hooking shields, striking bodies. They shove and kick.

Hannah forms a wall at his back, sharpening his focus ahead. Castiel hears the shouted directions of which way they are to move, which alphas they are to strike down. When Hannah shouts, Castiel turns, and Balthazar becomes the wall.

Time slides with dust and shouts and blood. The horn sounds, once, twice, and in a coordinated, undiscussed assault, Castiel and Hannah strike at both knees of one foe.

The alpha crumples as the third horn blast rings out, and both Castiel and Hannah hold position, at once motionless and posed for the next wave of attack.

One of the referees approaches as medics escort out the newest wave of casualties. Keeping both Castiel and Hannah in front of her, the referee waits to see whether the felled alpha can stand. Around them all, other combatants cheer and jeer, drowned out as they are by their audience.

With much grunting and straining, the alpha crumples each time they attempt to stand.

After the third attempt, chest heaving, breath ragged, the alpha is escorted out as well.

Castiel and Hannah look at each other and nod.

Look back to Balthazar, who is already nodding.

Look at the rest of their party, already smaller than they began.

In the back of Castiel’s mind, he knows how most fell. Remembers one twin falling, and the other going out of control with rage. Their group has dwindled to six, Castiel’s trio included. Ava and Gordon remain, along with Captain Talley.

“Draw in tighter,” Captain Talley tells the group. “Ava, we’re going to keep you inside. Give you a breather.”

Coughing in between controlled breaths, Ava only nods.

The horn sounds, and Castiel redoubles his focus. He has less ease of motion with Ava behind him instead of Hannah or Balthazar. Less trust. More strain.

Without knowing how to fit together safely, they leave larger gaps between themselves. Captain Talley goes down in a wrestling scuffle, and Castiel leaves Gordon to help him. Defending Balthazar takes precedent. Then defending himself.

With shield and quick feet, Castiel turns an oncoming spear thrust into a glancing blow. He steps in close to punch the spearman in the throat; when the spearman brings up his shield, someone else strikes the spear from his now single-handed grip.

A hard shove hits Castiel from behind, rocking him into the spearman, but Castiel goes down on top and lets gravity do its work. Climbing back to his feet is far more strenuous than it has any right to be. This hardly stops him.

“Regroup!” Hannah shouts to Castiel, positioned between him and Ava. Chest plate dented sharply, Ava stands not as a comrade, but an assailant.

“You nearly got me stabbed in the face!” Ava accuses Castiel.

“Touch him again, and you will be,” Balthazar tells her.

Ava looks to Gordon. Behind Gordon, Captain Talley lies prone in the dirt and dust.

Balthazar breathing heavily, he and Hannah form up alongside Castiel.

Gordon visibly weighs his odds, and when he and Ava make their move, Gordon hangs back to let her take the brunt of the response.

Castiel hooks his foot beneath the spearman’s fallen weapon and kicks it at Ava while backing away. A minor distraction, but an opening enough for Balthazar to fill. Where Ava falls, Gordon steps in close, slamming into Balthazar, the pair grappling.

Opportunistic opponents advance to finish the scuffle for both of them, and in the brief time it takes Hannah and Castiel to negate that threat, Gordon has Balthazar on the ground.

Castiel makes the call and falls back to Hunter, taking Hannah with him. Two of Hunter’s allies raise their weapons, but Hunter recognizes Castiel in time to call them off.

“What the hell’s going on with that split?” Hunter shouts to him above the din.

High tempers and low trust, Castiel might have replied, if given time, but Hunter’s eyes abruptly lock over Castiel’s shoulder.

Castiel steps aside and pivots, turning his back neither on Hunter nor on the object of Hunter’s focus.

Chest heaving, Gordon stares back at Hunter.

“No,” Gordon says. “I know that voice. _You_ can’t be here. This is an affront to the natural order.”

“Fuck the natural order,” Hunter shouts back, and Gordon goes for him with a snarl of alpha bloodlust.

Castiel presses close to Hunter, serving as a barrier. He catches Gordon’s sword against his shield, pins it there with his own weapon, and opens himself up to any number of unarmed counter-strikes from Gordon… had not Hunter taken advantage of the opening against Gordon instead.

Gordon staggers back, directly into Hannah’s waiting steel.

“Knock him out!” Hunter shouts. “Sam!”

Careful beyond measure on the opposite side of their allied group, Prince Samuel only disengages from his opponent once another alpha slips in to relieve him. The transition is close to flawless, but any ease found in Prince Samuel’s form vanishes the moment he sees Gordon pinned to the ground.

“Sam, he’s gonna talk,” Hunter tells the prince.

“This is wrong!” Gordon shouts, now to Prince Samuel. “He can’t be on the field. I never agreed to this!”

“You keep your mouth shut, or we shut you up,” Prince Samuel replies, bringing his spear down to point at Gordon’s neck.

“You’re not going to kill me over him, are you?” Gordon answers, free of fear.

“You’re going to yield,” Prince Samuel tells him, “and you’re going to keep your mouth shut for an hour. One hour.”

“This entire competition is a farce,” Gordon spits.

“I’m gonna kick your fucking head off,” Hunter says, and that’s when the horns blow.

Castiel positions himself between them, Hunter at his back.

“Hey!” Hunter protests, but the third horn blows.

All remain still.

“You will yield,” Prince Samuel repeats, voice low in the abrupt lull as those who can shuffle out, do. “You will be escorted by someone I _can_ trust. You will lie in the medical tent for one hour. Or I will personally destroy your life.”

Hunter cranes over Castiel’s shoulder to see, his breath hot where it can slip through to Castiel’s sweaty skin. A piece of strange distraction bubbles up through Castiel’s mind at that, but he takes it, breaks it, and puts it aside. Hunter still carries the faintest hint of omega scent with him, that token hidden inside his armor, hidden beneath the arena’s dust; that combined with simple sensation is reason enough for Hunter’s breath on his neck to bring him chills.

As Prince Samuel speaks, Hannah looks to Castiel with questions in her eyes. Castiel ignores them, instead watching Balthazar rise to his hands and knees with an immense groan. The effort visibly costing him, Balthazar forces himself upright. Under the referee’s direction, Balthazar walks a short span, an undeniable stiffness underlining his typically showy manner. Dirt and blood smear down his left cheek, and he’s favoring one leg despite his best efforts to do otherwise.

With Balthazar’s referee soon to move closer, Castiel scans the arena: the larger groups, the pairs paused mid-duel. The distances between them all. Alistair closer but still with foes between them. But most pressing of all, the referee, and Gordon ready to expose Hunter as an illicit competitor and a bastard.

“Hannah,” Castiel says sharply, interrupting Prince Samuel. “You and Balthazar will escort Gordon out.”

“What are you talking about?” Hannah asks. “This isn’t the plan.”

Looking Prince Samuel in the eyes, Castiel replies, “Hannah, if you have ever wished for me to gain the prince’s approval, I need you to do this for me. Now. I can explain later. Take him. Contain him. Ignore anything he says.”

“Garth,” Prince Samuel says. “You too.”

A gangly alpha with exhausted posture attempts to straighten up. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” Hunter answers. “You and, uh, Hannah, right? Keep an eye on Gordon.”

Hannah says, “Castiel-”

“ _Now_ ,” Castiel orders.

With clear misgivings, Hannah obeys. On her own initiative, she removes her waterskin and tosses it to Castiel. She and Garth hoist Gordon up between the two of them. Bewildered and limping heavily, Balthazar follows them out at Castiel’s gestured command. On his way out, Balthazar wobbles into the side of the gate. It was the right choice.

Behind Castiel, Hunter huffs out a shaking breath. “You got the prince’s favor, all right.”

“Do you always speak for, for Sammy?” Castiel asks, looking back over his shoulder.

The strain of prolonged combat visibly delaying his reaction, Hunter pauses before grinning, the expression visible in his eyes. Through the wide slit of his visor, sweat shines on his face, beading in the dust on his skin. “Whenever I can get away with it.”

Castiel passes him Hannah’s waterskin, and Hunter drinks gratefully, lifting his visor. Tugging off one of his gauntlets, he pours water into his palm and wipes at his face. The dust smudges and drips as Hunter passes the waterskin back. Castiel drinks as well, savoring it, the lukewarm water divine to a parched throat. He wipes his mouth and casts the waterskin aside.

Perhaps as a result of the thrill of battle, Castiel’s sensitive nose catches even stronger hints of Hunter’s token from Prince Dean. It’s a steadying, calming scent, and Castiel remains close for utilitarian reasons. His racing heart slows. Exhaustion fades, painted over by that strange brush.

Hunter eyes him with a confused measure of suspicion, but he smiles back readily when Castiel surprises himself with a grin.

They stand there a moment longer, catching their breaths, until the horns sound.

The group reforms, closing ranks. “Your second in command didn’t look happy,” Prince Samuel comments, taking up position between Castiel and Hunter. “Are you sure you trust her not to turn on Hunter?”

“I trust her to obey me,” Castiel replies.

Prince Samuel nods, but still divides his attention between the arena and Castiel. That much is clear in the angle of his closed helmet. “You look nervous.”

Castiel points with his blade, indicating the center of a new and growing alliance. The fighters in the arena have dwindled far enough to make Alistair’s point for him: unless the remaining combatants unite against Prince Samuel’s group now, the weight of superior numbers will crush them. “Do you know that alpha?”

Prince Samuel looks.

“Alistair,” Hunter answers for him with a voice of frozen rage. “Yeah.”

“Then you’re acquainted,” Castiel says.

“He’s the reason Dean doesn’t receive scenting tours anymore,” Prince Samuel says.

“Not the _only_ reason,” Hunter grumbles, hard to hear with Prince Samuel between them.

“I’m afraid my charade has drawn his attention to your brother,” Castiel apologizes to Prince Samuel.

Prince Samuel shakes his head. “He’d be coming for Dean anyway.”

“Why?” Castiel asks.

Neither Prince Samuel nor Hunter immediately reply. Everyone in their group shifts instead, forming a line to hold against Alistair’s growing group.

Well after Castiel has accepted that he’ll get no answer, Hunter says, “Let’s just say he doesn’t take rejection well.”

“He and Dean are scent compatible,” Prince Samuel admits.

“Sam!” Hunter hisses.

“It’s the only way they’re compatible,” Prince Samuel continues.

“But that’s enough for some,” Castiel finishes for him.

It makes a certain amount of sense. It’s been said that alphas who would attract the same omegas are often repelled by each other. Judging solely by the scent escaping from beneath Hunter’s leathers, Castiel and Prince Dean would be very scent compatible. Odd that Hunter himself doesn’t smell repellent. 

Castiel exhales hard through his nose. Inhales dust, blood, and Prince Samuel. Perhaps there’s some royal quality that makes Prince Samuel smell like family, vaguely similar to the way King Michael does. This is easier to focus on. Calmer.

“Would he recognize you?” Castiel asks.

“Probably not me,” Prince Samuel says. “With our visors down, it should be fine.”

Hunter says nothing.

“Incoming,” one of Prince Samuel’s alphas needlessly warns: Alistair has used the previous break and this round so far to rally the remaining players against Prince Samuel’s numbers.

It’s a small company, but so is theirs.

“Hunter, get behind us,” Prince Samuel says.

With a low, oddly young growl in his throat, Hunter does as bidden.

Brows furrowed beneath his helm, Castiel looks back at him.

“What?” Hunter snaps.

Castiel inhales.

Hunter’s rosy face pales beneath the flush of exertion.

Head tilted, Castiel stares.

Hunter pulls down his visor before punching Castiel’s shoulder. “Eyes front!”

“If I can smell you, so can others,” Castiel replies. “That’s what Gordon meant, you defying the natural order.”

Prince Samuel looks at him sharply. “Not the time, Cas.”

“Stay close for the next horn,” Castiel tells Hunter. “You’re not the first I’ve found on the battlefield.”

Sweat dripping down his nose, leaking his true scent out, Hunter stares back at Castiel. “Don’t know what you mean.”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “You’re Prince Dean’s heatmate.” That much is clear. The close companionship with the royal family, the confirmation that Prince Dean wants him back, Hunter’s inability to register as an alpha. This is the omega who sees Prince Dean through his heats, the prince’s designated omega partner who isn’t meant to count towards true mating.

“If you breathe a word,” Hunter threatens.

“Hunter,” Castiel says plainly, “I don’t think you understand how many omegas sneak into the army.”

Attention torn between Castiel and the approaching line of alphas, Hunter mutters, “Yeah? And what do you do to the ones you catch?”

“Typically? Send them back for basic training,” Castiel answers, and Hunter’s attention snaps back to him, his pale green eyes fire bright. “But with you, I doubt that would be a concern.”

“Whatever you think, I’m winning this,” Hunter says, every inch a fighter. Face gleaming. Eyes shining. Sword bared. A vision of omega perfection Castiel had never considered until now.

And absolutely taken with another.

“Yes, you are,” Castiel agrees—promises—and turns to face the foe. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Several people have asked, and yes, I do read all the comments! There's just a bunch of you and my energy is low, so while I don't individually respond anymore, please know you're appreciated. 
> 
> As always, to see what else I'm working on, you can follow me on [tumblr here](http://bendingsignpost.tumblr.com/).


	4. Victory and Defeat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The competition dwindles, and the victor is announced.

The approaching line of alphas is as ragged and bruised as Castiel feels. It must be.

They hide their exhaustion and injuries as well as Castiel does. They have to.

They are bound together against Hunter’s line through self-interest, not loyalty. They must be.

Alistair strides in the center of the line, his too-familiar sneer widening with each step. Eyes locked on Castiel, his expression twists into a grin that contains only teeth. There is a reason Alistair forgoes a helmet that would better protect his face; he wishes too badly to be known, and feared.

Castiel readies his stance.

Spaced the shortest of charges apart, both lines ready themselves. The ends adjust positioning, neither wanting to be the shorter line, neither wanting to leave gaps between their alphas. Each line reaches a compromise of distance.

Both lines wait for the other to move.

Prince Samuel smacks his spear against his shield the once, and the remainder of their line picks up the beat on the second strike. Shoulder to shoulder with the prince, Castiel joins on the third.

On the fifth strike, all snarl; Hunter included, his as unpracticed as his growl. The sound melts and calms Castiel’s heart even as he meets Alistair’s gaze.

The minor show of coordination fails to intimidate the opposing line, but several let their weapons dip in exhaustion.

Good.

“Hello, Commander,” Alistair greets Castiel. “Are you ready for me to break you while your little prince watches?” He nods toward the royal box behind Castiel. “I can practically smell him from here. Can’t you?”

With that, Alistair inhales deeply with a low, rumbling hum. “So sweet. He’s already dripping for me. But then, I imagine you don’t know _why_ Dean’s so bow-legged, do you?”

Prince Samuel charges, and the line must follow.

As Castiel spurs himself into motion, he hears Hunter from behind: “Cas, remember how we met!”

The lines collide, Prince Samuel slamming shield and spear shaft into Alistair. Castiel shoves back the combatant before him, the better to strike his blade into Alistair’s side. Metal clangs against metal, but Castiel’s shoved foe regains her balance quickly, too quickly, and Castiel pays for it with a stinging blow to the shoulder, nearly to the head.

The clash itself lasts for barely a fraction of the time they’d spent posturing, as battles always do. The injured peel off or fall, and those who fall turn the terrain difficult. An alpha who can no longer fight can still always trip another.

Both sides pull back to regroup. To reassess the foes before them. To acknowledge the few scattered alphas throughout the arena choosing to hang back and watch them destroy each other.

To see Alistair’s head turn to focus on a spot behind Castiel, behind Prince Samuel.

“Hey!” Hunter shouts, visor raised. “Remember me, fuckface?”

Pleasure blossoms into a twisted smile across Alistair’s surprised features. “So eager to see me. What a pleasure to have you come to me yourself. I knew you’d stop resisting eventually.”

“You don’t fucking touch him!” Prince Samuel snarls. Every last one of his allies immediately echoes this sentiment.

“Sam, leave him,” Hunter orders, but Castiel can smell him well enough now, this close, to know his fear.

“You want me all to yourself?” Alistair asks, still with that smile. The other alphas gathered around him look on in confusion. One makes coarse reference to army mates, but Alistair doesn’t acknowledge the slight.

“You want me, you chase me,” Hunter says, dropping his visor. He bolts away, running perpendicular to the lines, back toward the stands and the royal box.

“Wait!” Prince Samuel shouts, but Alistair’s line charges forward in that moment of distraction.

The line only, and not Alistair himself: Alistair hangs back before circling around at a jog. Before breaking into a run.

Remembering very well how he’d met Hunter, Castiel holds the line until Alistair passes them, the single-minded gleam of the chase in his eyes.

And then Castiel too runs.

Ahead of him: Alistair in full armor, broadsword swinging. Ahead of them both: Hunter in chain and leathers, sprinting toward the rail. Ahead of them all: a shouting crowd and the half-empty royal box.

Hunter turns at the railing, sword raised, and with his other hand, he gestures for the crowd to cheer louder.

Their audience readily complies as Alistair reaches Hunter and strikes. Heavy broadsword to light shield. Sword to plate armor. Gauntlet-clad punches to helmets.

And Castiel close behind, his pounding footsteps hopefully drowned out by the crowd.

He strikes low, his blade sweeping at the backs of both of Alistair’s knees, striking harder at the left as Castiel crosses to that side.

Alistair strikes back, lashing out at Castiel as he falls to one knee, and though the blow lands, that is nothing compared to Hunter’s blade, originally aimed toward Alistair’s midsection.

A chainmail coif over the head and neck is good protection against a slash. A mail coif can even be reasonable protection against a stab, should the hood be made of strong enough rings.

But there is little a mail coif can do to stop a blunt strike to a windpipe.

Alistair crumples.

The crowds roar and cheer in equal measure.

With a triumphant shout, Hunter kicks Alistair over.

He and Castiel both stare down, checking for signs of deception, their blades at Alistair’s crushed throat.

The futile, rattling gasps hint toward honesty. As does the fear in those cold eyes. 

“Fucking bastard,” Hunter swears, kicking Alistair in the side.

“Enough of that.” Castiel grips Hunter by the arm and pulls him away.

Hunter allows himself to be pulled back only a few steps before shaking Castiel off. “You have _no idea_ what that piece of shit-”

Under the noise of the crowd, Castiel lowers his voice. “The medic is coming, and you can’t let them smell you.”

Quivering in the combined rushes of fear and bloodlust, Hunter trembles with indecision before stalking away, retreating towards Prince Sam. The distance is somehow larger than it was before. Vast with the pulsing pain in Castiel’s shoulder and side. It slows both of them.

Castiel doesn’t match Hunter’s pace, but he remains close by. “Thank you,” Castiel says.

Slowing slightly, Hunter jerks a look back at him. “What?”

“You crushed his throat,” Castiel says. “Even with the medic, he’ll be dead within the hour.”

Expression impassive behind his visor, Hunter simply stares at him.

“It would be bad form for me to kill an enemy in a courtship melee,” Castiel explains. “You killing him with many witnesses, that’s very helpful. Thank you.”

Eyes cold, Hunter replies, “You have no idea what that bastard tried to do to me. What he does to, to people like me.”

“Did,” Castiel corrects.

Hunter’s eyes don’t soften. They simply turn from ice to flame. “ _Did_ ,” Hunter agrees, and his name absolutely suits him, from teeth to blade. The magnificence of the righteous. The glory of the just.

The horns blow, and rather than try to jog back to Prince Samuel and the few others remaining of their group, Hunter slows and stops. Castiel stops with him.

“You said something about hiding my scent,” Hunter reminds him. “Probably shouldn’t rejoin the fray until I get that covered.”

Nodding, Castiel replies, “Take off your helmet.”

“Uh, no,” Hunter immediately, harshly refuses. “Having my visor up is risky enough, Cas.”

“Fine. We’ll work around it. Take my waterskin, wash what you can.”

“Thanks.” Hunter drinks first. Castiel forces himself to ignore the sight even before Hunter begins to wash the limited parts of himself he can reach.

Castiel pulls off each of his gauntlets, sticks them beneath his armpit, and removes his helm, its aventail curtain swaying in a rattle of chain. He wipes at the sweat of his face, at the back of his neck, and intermittently pretends to adjust something inside of his helm, wiping the sweat off. He runs his hand through his soaked hair and wipes that off inside his helm as well.

“There’s something wrong inside my helm,” Castiel informs Hunter. “I need you to adjust it.”

“Uh-huh,” Hunter replies, swapping the waterskin for the helm. His expression one of clear distaste, he ungloves one hand and reaches around inside the helm. He rubs at the back of his neck. At the sides. Waves at his face, indicating the heat to their onlookers.

“Dirt can help, too,” Castiel adds, not knowing what else to say as Hunter scentmarks himself with Castiel’s sweat.

“Seriously, you get a lot of omegas in the Rapture army?”

“Enough to have protocols for them,” Castiel replies. “We don’t recruit omegas, officially, but anyone who makes it to the front lines is permitted to stay, if they can hold their own.”

“And when the season changes?” Hunter asks dubiously. He pulls as face as he rubs at his own cheek. 

“In addition to the public heathouse, there’s a private heathouse for officers’ mates and omega soldiers at each major station.”

“Hear a lot of shitty things about public heathouses.”

“The one for the officers’ mates is extremely well protected. The heatmates are extensively vetted, and the houses themselves are omega-run. All alphas have to wait in a private visitation room, and the omegas choose whether to see them.”

Hunter grunts a note of consideration.

“You’d be very safe there,” Castiel promises.

Hand deep in Castiel’s helm, Hunter looks at him sharply. “Uh…”

“Please hear me out.”

Hunter hands Castiel his helm back. “Look, buddy, maybe you haven’t noticed, but I’m not exactly fighting here to win an alpha mate.”

“I know that, but if you don’t-”

“No.”

“I want to recruit you.”

Hunter stares at him.

“If you don’t win, or if the king refuses the match, you don’t have to stay here and waste your talents,” Castiel tells him. “Rapture would welcome you with open arms. We need more fighters like you, Hunter.”

“You… what?” Eyes blinking, shining. Mouth soft in confusion, lower lip still gleaming from the cut of having his visor punched against his face.

Castiel looks away and settles his helm onto his head and its chainmail aventail around his neck. Hunter’s scent fills his nostrils, his lungs, his mind. As he has never been before, Castiel is scentmarked in return. Outwardly impassive, he adjusts his gauntlets. “Will you consider it? You’re officer quality, that much is clear.”

“You’re offering me a job.”

“Yes.”

Hunter makes a choked noise.

Castiel looks at him in time to catch the smile before the laugh.

A loud laugh, hard and good and grinning when Hunter slaps his hand on Castiel’s good shoulder. “Cas, you are… I don’t even know what you are.”

“Goal oriented,” Castiel replies.

Hunter laughs again. “Yeah. Sure. Let’s go with that.”

“Will you consider it?” Castiel asks, even as the horns blow again, resuming the battle with its few remaining combatants.

Wordlessly, Hunter begins to walk back to Prince Samuel and his single ally still standing.

Castiel matches his pace. “Please. I think we’d work well together.”

“Yeah,” Hunter says, but his wistful tone turns the word into regretful rejection. “We would. But I can’t just up and leave. That’s not up to me.”

“Your father won’t grant you permission? Lord Robert seems a reasonable man.”

“You think Bobby’s my dad?” Hunter asks, finally looking back at him.

“Ah,” Castiel says. “My mistake.”

“Yeah, well. If he was, you’d be right.”

Castiel frowns at the tautology. “About him being your father?”

“About me coming with you if all this goes to shit.”

“What if-”

“Cas,” Hunter cuts him off. “Trust me. I’ve looked at all the angles, and winning this is my only path.”

“Of course,” Castiel says, and it hurts to know that the tightness in his throat isn’t from the dust. “I hope he deserves you.”

“What?”

“Your prince,” Castiel says. “I hope he deserves you.”

Hunter looks at him strangely, distantly, as if the question had never before occurred to him before.

With no further talk, they reach Prince Samuel and his sole remaining ally, and help them easily overwhelm a pair of alphas. Regardless, Prince Samuel’s companion is fading fast, with Prince Samuel little better off. Armor scratched and dented. Certain limbs favored over others.

Castiel’s body insists it’s in the same state, but his heart refuses. Whatever it takes to defend Hunter, Castiel must do.

And then…

After it all…

If King John refuses the match, maybe then Hunter will wish to leave. If Hunter’s father is the sort of alpha to sell off an omega instead of providing dowry, Castiel certainly has the coin. Perhaps Hunter’s father would prefer a distant, alpha-passing son to a close omega one...

Belatedly, Castiel realizes Hunter and Prince Samuel have been talking.

“Should be able to handle them separately,” Prince Samuel says, Hunter nodding along.

“Right, yeah. Benny, you stay with Sam, I’ll keep Cas. And, Benny, seriously, if you take out Sammy before I get a crack at him, I’m coming at you next.”

Benny laughs before falling in with Prince Samuel, approaching another pair of stragglers.

“That one’s ours,” Hunter says, pointing with his sword.

The lone alpha in question walks a wide circle around them, attempting to reach Prince Samuel’s targets. Hunter and Castiel cut her off easily, move together easily. It’s as if their shared scent has given them shared knowledge, a shortcut into absolute coordination, but that’s simply Hunter, adapting to Castiel’s style as naturally as breathing.

Still, by the end of the short tussle, both of them are breathing hard. They leave the alpha on the ground, accepting the dropped weapon and her cry of yielding.

They turn in time to see Benny go down, and stay down, a few dozen yards away. Prince Samuel continues his duel against the one remaining foe.

“Final four,” Hunter says, and turns to Castiel.

They raise their weapons in pained, cautious unison.

Hunter rolls his shoulders, getting ready. “Once Sammy knocks him down, I get you. If Sammy falls, we get that alpha. Yeah?”

Castiel nods back.

Then, just because he can, he leisurely reaches out to tap Hunter’s shield with his blade.

Hunter knocks him off. Taps him back.

They begin to circle.

With those remarkable eyes, Hunter begins to grin.

Castiel begins to grin back.

They spar.

Not fight. Not battle.

Spar.

As if partners upon the training field, each gaining a feel for the other. Hunter presses him faster, but Castiel presses back harder. More than once, each of them pulls through via footing rather than sword work.

They breathe heavily, panting, wasting energy. Any maneuver requiring dexterous work is a maneuver doomed to failure. Here are blunt blocks only, finesse worn away.

“Sam check,” Hunter declares, eyes locked on Castiel’s. With no further discussion required, they press in close, locking blades, and Hunter glances away. With a wide grin in those beautiful eyes, he looks back.

“Do we need to avenge him?” Castiel asks.

“Nope,” Hunter answers gleefully. “Final three. We get to keep fighting.”

“My left shoulder’s hurt the worst,” Castiel tells him. “Do what you have to.”

They push off from each other, and Hunter does not target Castiel’s weak shoulder.

The sparring intensifies into a duel, but never transitions into the threat of true battle. When they lock in close once more, Hunter hits him with a surprisingly high kick to the midsection, pushing Castiel back. Rather than take advantage of Castiel’s weakened balance, Hunter steps back to grandstand, sword and shield raised high despite the obvious strain in his arms.

The crowd cheers in adoration, and Castiel’s heart shouts with them.

“Promise me something,” Castiel asks.

Hunter slaps his sword against his shield, once, twice, before squaring up for another exchange. “What?”

“That we’ll do this again, fresh.”

Hunter grins, wide and wild, a creature tamed by his own hand. “Fuck yeah.”

As if Hunter had been the one waiting for that promise, Hunter goes hard on Castiel’s left, striking Castiel's shield down harder with each blow until the pain of raising it rivals the pain of being struck. Blow after blow from the side, hacking into his shield, then

from the right

Hunter’s shield.

Wood and metal strike Castiel above the right ear, and it would be vanity to say Castiel lets himself fall.

It is _not_ vanity to say he allows himself to remain fallen. Head ringing, field spinning, left arm all but useless, he still has his sword arm. Still has his legs. On the battlefield, with his life on the line, he has come back from worse.

The crowd and Castiel’s ears roar in equal measure, and Castiel stays down.

“Cas?” he hears Hunter shout, as if from far away. Above him, beyond him, the horns blow and a distant announcer proclaims that only the final two challengers remain. For some reason, this involves launching into a speech rather than allowing Hunter and Prince Samuel to have it out immediately, but this is enough.

Castiel closes his eyes and smiles up at the red glare of the sky through his eyelids. When the medics come to claim him, he goes willingly. Leans heavily.

As he’s escorted out under the stands, however, he begins to doubt his own sense of direction. Because this is not the way out to the medical tents. He pushes back, catches himself on a wall beneath the arena, and turns to face the beta medics.

Both gape at him, one in confusion, one in ire. Neither appear armed or react as if sent by Lucifer or one of Alistair’s officers to kill Castiel while exhausted.

“Where are you taking me?” Castiel demands.

“Look who can stand up,” one of the medics says.

Castiel leans more heavily against the wall.

“You’re being brought up on accusation of cheating,” says the other medic. “Come on.”

“I’ve already lost,” Castiel says, but willingly accompanies them. Going up the wooden stairs hurts, though. Gripping the railing with his right hand, Castiel has to haul himself up with each step. To his tired body, the staircase seems a better seat than many. He forces himself onward.

Up the stairs, it quickly becomes apparent that this is a servants’ access hall. There’s an operating kitchen tucked in here, filled with silver trays in various stages of preparation and mess. The heat of cooking replaces the heat of bodies, the area dim with the controlled stove fires. The medics lead him on, past several doors marked with simple labels, _Box One, Box Two_ , so on, and they stop outside of a door that feels excessive to the situation.

_Royal Box_.

The medic knocks on the door. A redheaded omega servant opens it.

Inside—outside—there is a curtain. The scenting curtain, which from the outside shields Queen Mary, Princess Madison, and Prince Dean from voyeurs.

Except.

There sits Queen Mary, blonde and regal.

There sits Princess Madison, brunette and fair.

There between them, sits an empty chair.

Beyond the bend of the curtain, just barely visible, is the back of King John’s throne, and the empty seat for Prince Samuel.

Queen Mary stands before Castiel can attempt to bow, before the servant can announce him.

“Come here,” Queen Mary orders.

Castiel steps forward, removing his helm as is proper. Without the ability to raise his left hand, the simple action takes on new difficulty; the attached chainmail aventail pulls off his cap and tugs at his hair. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees King John reach over to peer behind the curtain.

“I see you’re up already,” Queen Mary says. “Sir Castiel, isn’t it? Duke of Rapture? The one that’s been in love with Dean for years.”

“I was stunned by a head wound, Your Majesty,” Castiel replies, eyes lowered. He shows her the helm, and the dent.

Heedless of the dust and sweat adorning it, Queen Mary takes the helm from him. She turns it over, lowers her head, and breathes in.

Castiel goes cold. He looks to the king, waiting for the rebuke of corrupting his mate with another alpha’s scent, but King John merely watches, a question behind the stone of his eyes. With the attention of the arena on him, eager to see what he sees, King John does nothing more.

Queen Mary nods to King John.

King John sighs deeply.

“Tell me, Sir Castiel,” Queen Mary says, handing the omega servant Castiel’s helm. “Where are my sons?”

Castiel looks out through the curtain, translucent as it is from the interior, and Hunter has pushed Prince Samuel into solely defensive maneuvers. With growing dread, Castiel looks at the _two_ empty chairs.

Castiel answers slowly, “I believe I am here because Your Majesty already knows.”

“Then you know as well,” Queen Mary replies. “Tell me, why did you let him best you?”

“Because Your Majesty has trained him well enough to best me.”

Faintly, nigh imperceptibly, Queen Mary almost looks pleased. Just for a moment. One instant.

And then that instant is gone, washed away in the renewed cheers and shouts of the crowd. The entire arena calls to their new champion: a triumphant omega with sword raised high.

“Mary?” asks King John.

“Yes,” says the queen. “We’ll go with your plan.”

Immediately, the servant reappears at Castiel’s side, his helm replaced by a bowl of water and a towel. Standing as steadily as his legs will hold him, Castiel frowns into the damp cloth scraped down his face. Very gently, one of the medics begins to assess his arm.

Through the curtain, Castiel sees King John rise and stride to the front of the royal box.

King John raises both of his hands, lowers them, and the cheering quiets.

With a firm and booming voice, the king announces, “On this day, we have at last found an alpha worthy of my son, your prince.”

Another cheer goes up.

King John again gestures for silence, and gets it. “On this day, we have a champion chosen both through battle and my son’s own preference.”

Desperately, distantly, Castiel prays through the pounding of his head that Hunter… that Hunter…

That the second empty seat…

“For this alpha has bequeathed the greatest courting gift unto my son that he has ever desired,” King John continues, now gesturing to the lone figure standing in the arena. Standing with fear tightened into defiance. “Victory.”

A great murmuring rushes through the stands, only to break out into shouts as Hunter rips off his helmet. Hunter shouts something, but the words are lost to the crowd, to the distance. On the ground beside him, Prince Samuel struggles to rise beneath the weight of armor and injuries.

“Help your brother stand, Dean,” King John orders.

Hunter turns his back.

Grudgingly thrusts his hand down.

And hauls Prince Samuel to his feet. Supports Prince Samuel with his shoulder even as a medic fits a sling around Castiel’s left arm, over his armor.

“It is with great pride that I present to you all this melee’s true victor. The last true competitor standing.” King John lifts his arm, looking back through the curtain.

Hands push at Castiel’s back. Gently, Queen Mary grips his bad shoulder.

Castiel’s feet move.

The scent curtain draws back, and the sunlight strikes Castiel’s eyes in full, wounding his brain through his eyes. The box tilts, and King John catches Castiel’s good hand. Raises it high while Queen Mary steadies Castiel through the curtain with a hand at his back.

Castiel stares down while the crowd screams daggers into his ears. Unable to face the arena, his eyes seek out Jack in the stands and find the boy standing in his chair, shouting his lungs out, arms waving in frantic delight.

“Sir Castiel Novak-Shurley, Duke of Rapture, Commander of the Northern Army!” King John announces into the cheering arena. “And soon: my son-in-law!

At last, Castiel cannot do other than look. Down, at Prince Samuel.

At Prince Dean.

At Hunter, who with a face full of fury, hurls his helmet to the ground. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, everybody, the second part is already underway (and is already longer than this bad boy). You can expect the sequel, The Combat of Courtship, sometime next year, as December is going to be a pair of oneshots. 
> 
> A big thank you to Ltleflrt and Vyc for beta'ing, and to all you lovely people who have read this far. 
> 
> ALSO! If anyone would like to write a portion of any random songs regarding Sir Castiel of Rapture being in love with Prince Dean of the Emerald Eyes, I would be absolutely delighted to include those stanzas in some banquet scenes and give credit in the notes. 
> 
> As always, to see what else I'm working on, you can follow me on [tumblr here](http://bendingsignpost.tumblr.com/).


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